My Dead Wife
by BleedingHeartConservative
Summary: At the end, Erik calls Christine his living wife. He tells the Persian that when she let him kiss her she was "as lovely as the dead ones." Who are the dead ones? Who is Erik's dead wife? Here is one theory. A little dark. A little sad. Poor unhappy Erik!


**Author's Note:**

Somewhere in the course of writing my longer POTO fic, a conversation came up with a few readers regarding Erik's comment about having a "living wife" instead of a dead wife. Readers and I compared translations of Erik's final words on this matter. In some versions he tells the Persian "I kissed her alive, daroga, and she was just as beautiful as if she were dead." Other versions say "and she looked as if she were dead" and at least one said "And she was as beautiful as the dead ones." Depending on which version you read, there perhaps quite a dark suggestion there. Readers speculated everything from Erik's own appearance of being "like death" may have sparked the thought that he should have a dead woman as his wife to the idea that perhaps Erik had come upon a dead woman and noticed that as she was not filled with fear, was not screaming and crying, she was beautiful. He might have reached the conclusion that the only way a woman could be near him without fear was if she was dead. And of course, there is always the possibility that Leroux was suggesting something darker, something like necrophilia, which certainly sounds plausible given the translation that refers to "the dead ones."

Also in the course of writing my longer POTO fic, which is a sequel to Leroux, it came up that perhaps I would consider writing a prequel and/or a retelling as alternate beginning to Kay's version. I decided that I would certainly consider it, but that I would rely entirely on Leroux's timeline if I did a retelling and that as regards a prequel I would based everything I put into it on clues that actually exist in Leroux. Driving to work on Wednesday morning, this little idea came into my mind and I determined that it was clearly a part of the prequel that I have not yet entirely committed to write. I decided that this little part was certainly worth writing down, even if I didn't ever manage to write the REST of the piece, so here it is. This is not exactly as I composed it in my head this morning. It was actually somewhat better. But then I worked for 12 hours and drove home, and some of the details had gotten foggy.

Please note that because I used Leroux exclusively, the "little sultana" is the shah's favorite (wife, presumably) not his mother. And there's nothing in Leroux that suggests she's nearly as evil as Kay made her. Therefore, for purposes of this piece, you have to assume her gift to Erik is well-meaning.

**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own _Phantom of the Opera._ Actually _it_ owns _me_.

* * *

The ceremony had been brief and meaningless. Erik was an infidel as far as anyone of that faith was concerned, and Erik himself was not particularly interested in religion of any variety. He was not particularly interested in a marriage, either, as there was no woman in his life, nor did he expect there ever would be as he was certain that if ever someone created a list of the most hideous men ever to walk the earth, his name would definitely be upon it and would, perhaps, even top that list. Not that he didn't think of love—or lust—from time to time. On the contrary, there were times when one or the other consumed his thoughts entirely. But he had no hope of ever acting upon those thoughts, and so marriage was certainly the farthest thing from his mind.

The little sultana, however, was pleased with him and wanted to give him a gift. The gift came from the shah-in-shah, of course, but Erik knew it was really from the Shah's "favorite," the first of his many wives. He knew from her pleasure with him when he first showed he the infinite palace he had designed and from the quiet conversation they had carefully enjoyed after she praised his efforts. She was dreadfully bored, and Erik had managed to entertain her. The little sultana was always bored, for though she was her husband's favorite, she was still one of many wives, and he a man who had far more to do in life than pay close attention to the desires of even one wife, let alone the number he had. Erik had not only entertained her with the infinite palace, but also, when she came to question him about its construction later, with conversation. At her request he told her of his travels, and the sultana, who had never seen anything outside her husband's palace, had been enthralled.

The end result of all this entertainment was that Erik had been provided a wife of his very own. No, he hadn't seen her yet, for she had been dressed in her traditional costume for the brief ceremony. He could make out only her large luminous eyes below her scarves and above her veil. Likely her impression of him had been one and the same, for he wore a mask of silk that covered his entire face, his yellow eyes glowing out at her from dark sockets beneath the mask.

Erik had seen only the eyes of his bride but he could tell from them that she was absolutely terrified, and he understood why. He had heard that most new brides were fearful on their wedding day, worrying incessantly about their wedding night. He had heard that many new husbands did not show proper concern for their wives emotions or comfort. Couple _that_ with the fact that she was being married to a man who was not of her people, not of her faith, then throw in the additional detail that he was a man whose reputation preceded him, a man who kept _his _face covered day and night, even in front of those who knew him most intimately. As no one here had seen him, no one was certain whether the mask covered a horrifying disfigurement resulting from some terrible accident or a monstrous deformity the ugliness of which was beyond words. It was the latter, of course, Erik himself knew, but he would sooner kill than reveal the reason for his mask. The poor girl had no doubt heard talk that the mask covered a face uglier than death itself; sadly, Erik reflected, not even a terrifying imagination could prepare her for what she indeed had married. No doubt she expected he would behave as any man did following a marriage; she expected him to expect certain things; she must be terrified beyond comprehension.

To tell the truth, Erik himself was rather fearful about _that_ part of the arrangement and had no qualms about putting it off for later. Not a soul had seen even his _face_ since he left Niji Novgorod over a year earlier; he was not in a hurry to unmask himself, let alone disrobe before the scrutinizing eyes of a lovely woman.

Although, he couldn't yet be certain she _was_ lovely, either, as he hadn't seen her. Oh, that would be a rotten trick, a bitter irony, would it not, for the sultana or her husband to have sent him the ugliest of women to be his bride! Erik considered it a moment and decided it did not disturb him nearly as much as it would most men. In fact, it bothered him less than the idea that he might have a beautiful bride. He made up his mind to learn to love her, even if she was as ugly as he himself. No, he would love her still more in her ugliness. But no! He could love her as much if she were pretty. Whether she were ugly or pretty, either way it would be no fault of her own. No matter what, he would find something about her to love, and would eventually come to love everything about her. Yes, he would love her, because she was the one given to him. He could not be selective as many men are. He would give himself wholly to whatever revealed itself when those lovely robes, scarves and veils were cast off.

He hurried down the hallway to his chamber. She would be waiting for him here where she had been taken immediately after the ceremony. He wished for a moment alone in his room to prepare himself, but even as he wished for it, he cast the thought aside. He had seen the fear in her eyes as she was bound to him, knew she was filled with abject terror of what the moments after the ceremony would be like. No doubt she had heard terrible tales about him that were mostly lies. In truth, he was quite gentle when unprovoked and generally wished only to be left in peace. If she could not bear to be in his presence, he would bide his time and wait until he could win her over or find a way to set her free. He needed to let her know this. He needed to say or do something immediately to reassure her that she was not bound to some tragic fate, to let her know he would be a good husband to her, no matter what.

His heart quickened as he opened the door. She was lying upon the bed, her robes a golden splash across crimson. Her back was turned to him and she was curled upon herself as though in fear. Perhaps she had recoiled instinctively when she heard his deathly hand upon the lock. Oh, poor sweet girl, he thought. Poor sweet _wife, _he corrected his own thoughts. He carefully closed the door behind him and leaned against it, gazing at her. His eyes followed the delicate curve of her hips through her robe and wondered if she knew how lovely she looked, if she realized that even in this posture she would arouse him. No doubt her goal had been quite the opposite.

"I greet you," he whispered softly, "my wife."

She did not stir. He fairly tiptoed to the bed and stood gazing down, afraid to touch her.

"I apologize," he said suddenly. It wasn't what he meant to say, but once the words fell from his lips it seemed best to continue. The words were not well-rehearsed, but they came directly from the heart. "I know you must be filled with dread to have been placed in such a position. It is no doubt unpleasant for you to be commanded to marry in such a way, without any choice in the matter. It is far worse, I know, to have been promised to me." Without looking at her he could see in his mind's eye the tears well up in her large brown eyes as she realized he understood her, dared to dream that he would be kind. "I want you to know that I will do nothing to hurt you in any way. As I am grateful for you, I shall see to it that you are the happiest of women."

She did not respond, but she did not scream or cry or run away either. She merely listened, and he was heartened by this. He was beginning to love her just a little already, perhaps, for she gave him a chance, she allowed him to speak his heart, and she listened without judging.

"Erik shall not ask much of you," he said. "Erik is easily satisfied." He reached forward slowly. "Do not be frightened," he said softly, "and please," his voice had become a mere whisper, "please do not scream. I would give anything if you would not scream..." He carefully slipped his fingers into the hollow of her hand and sighed with delight. She did not scream. She did not pull away! He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Such a good wife, you are! Erik will learn to be a good husband to you, for you deserve a good husband! Do you know that Erik is quite pleased just to hold your hand? He will not ask for more. He adjusted his hand slightly and gripped hers just a little. "Do you know that no other woman has allowed Erik to hold her hand in his this way? Do you know how much joy this gives me? Oh!" he reached for her with his other hand as well, then stopped.

"Forgive me," he began. "I have been so lonely!" It had been true all his life, but this was the first he had uttered it aloud, and the sound of his own voice expressing his greatest pain aloud caught him off guard. For an instant he thought he might cry right there to her. What would she think of him then? Would she be pleased that he shared his emotion with her so soon, or would she find it unmanly and one more reason to bemoan her fate? He forced the sob back down his throat.

"Forgive me," he whispered again, at last daring to let the other hand come forward to rest upon her shoulder. "Please," he said, heartened by the warmth of her hand, the closeness of her body, "let me hold you. I shall not hurt you, I promise you that." He pulled her to himself, put her head against his shoulder and drew a shuddering breath. Her body was so soft and warm! How good it felt to have another body against his, to have someone lean against him this way. He wrapped his arms around her, her head upon his chest, rising and falling with his rapid breathing. "Oh, my sweet!" he murmured. He could no longer control his hands. They were stroking her, caressing her, over her scarf and down her robe, the fine gold silk soft against his poor hands and the warmth of her body radiating through. He put his cheek against the top of her head. He felt warm inside and out as he held her and he felt for certain for a moment that this was love. How easy it was to love her!

"My darling," he crooned. "Please," and he turned her head towards his masked face. "Please." He brushed at her veil and she did not resist. He brushed his fingers over it again, pulling slightly until her face was exposed. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. "Oh," he breathed, intoxicated by her beauty. How foolish he had been to think there was a chance the shah had provided him someone hideous as himself. She was perhaps the loveliest woman he had ever seen! "My sweet," he said running his thumb over her cheek, "Do not fear me. It will be all right. It is safe to open your eyes. I shall leave my face covered for your sake, but do look up at me. Let me see your lovely eyes."

When she did not respond it was the first time he felt worry. "What is the matter? What is it, love?" he asked her holding her in both hands by her upper arms. Her head flopped forward, her neck limp. "Darling?" he patted her lightly on the cheek with the tips of his fingers. "Oh, please!" he cried clutching at her. "Please don't leave me! I was just learning to love you!" He must have shaken her body a little for she fell forward onto his chest and he wrapped both arms around her, holding her tightly. "Oh, please," he whispered, rocking her to and fro desperately. Then he gently lay her back on the bed and swept her scarf from her head, watched her long dark hair cascade about her face. How stunningly beautiful she truly was! He touched her hair with his bony fingers, pressed his masked lips against the soft dark skin of her cheek.

He grasped her by the wrist, then feeling nothing, tugged loose the upper part of her robe and pressed his hand against her throat. He held his hand in front of her mouth and nose and waited, desperately holding his own breath. Nothing. He tore open the top of her robes and as he did so he imagined her protests. "It is all right, my love. Erik is your husband. Your husband cherishes you."

He was suspended in time an instant as the curves of her body caused all rational thought to momentarily leave his mind. Had he ever in his entire pathetic life seen anything so beautiful? But his heart pounded and his ears filled with the sound of his own blood as dread swept through him. With a last shred of hope he placed his hand over the place where he knew her heart would be and waited in agony. Nothing. Tears trickled down his face beneath the mask as he then pressed his ear to her heart and waited and listened, but in vain.

He fell to the bed beside her with a moan of agony and gathered her into his arms. With her head against his chest, her body full length against him, he wept bitterly, his arms wrapped about her feeling the soft curve of her hips as the warmth of her body faded slowly.

He turned his face to hers. "Do not be frightened," he told her in a fearful whisper. "Please... I could never hurt you!" and when she did not respond he slowly lifted his mask. Naturally, she did not scream.

"Oh, my love! Such a good, gentle wife! You are too kind to Erik. You are too good to me!" He wept with joy that he held a woman in his arms, barefaced, and she did not cry or struggle. He pressed his lips to hers, an unimaginable joy.

He must have slept, his bride in his arms, for when he became aware of his surroundings again the body beside him was cool and stiff. He opened his eyes. Her color had faded, though her beauty had not. He brushed away a fresh tear and touched her lips with his. So cold she was! He tied her robes and replaced her veil and scarf. Such a sweet, pretty wife she had been! He smoothed her scarf over her hair, pulled the veil up beneath her eyes.

He replaced his own mask upon his face and opened the door to go for assistance in preparing her funeral. Erik was a widower. Erik was alone once again.

* * *

**End notes:** To those who might be confused, when the idea came to me the thought was that the wife had taken some variety of poison or some such immediately after the ceremony in order to avoid whatever Erik might do to her. In the version in my head this morning, I remember him finding a little ornate bottle in the pockets of her robes and acknowledging what she'd done, but tonight, exhausted beyond words, I couldn't figure out where to put it in. As I said, this, then, is a rough-ish draft. Your suggestions will be used constructively to make additions and corrections.

**Shameless Begging:** Since I went out of my way to post this, I hope you'll be so kind as to go out of your way to leave me a few kind words.


End file.
